


Swansong

by Cerberusia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Music, Pederasty, Singing, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2333696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is Professor of Potions and Choirmaster at Hogwarts. Albus is his prize boy soprano. But the problem with boy soprani is that they can't <i>stay</i> boy soprani...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swansong

**Author's Note:**

> I've gone a bit off-piste on this one: the prompt called for choirboy!Albus fancying his conductor, but then I decided to write it from Draco's POV and the idea of choirmaster!Draco rather ran away with me! This is what happens when I read books on Britten...Incidentally, despite sounding like somewhere that would only turn up in a P.G. Wodehouse novel, Kingston Bagpuize is a real place.

_And an owl calling_  
_Cool dews falling_  
_In a wood of oak and may..._

Draco smiled approvingly at the sound of his favoured soloist's voice soaring through the vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall. Trebles were often difficult, due to their age, but Albus had always been a perfect dream to teach. For not only did his head voice have that sought-after pure, ethereal quality; he was also willing to take instruction and work to have not only a nice tone, but also much better diction, which always seemed to be a problem for trebles.

It was such a shame that it would soon all have to come to an end: for Albus's voice was breaking. Oh, you couldn't hear it if you weren't trained in music: actually, to the untrained ear, his voice sounded better than ever, with a new richness of tone. Draco called it swansong: the last flight of musical beauty before transfiguration into something else entirely. 

"Honestly," he'd said some time ago to a colleague - possibly even Longbottom - "I don't see why we should have to follow the Muggle fashion for no longer gelding promising boys. Their voices seem to break earlier and earlier these days, I get so little time with them to bring out their full potential..."

He didn't remember what his interlocutor had said in reply, though probably something not in full agreement - Draco was considered something of an iconoclast among the faculty, although his opinions on the value of boy sopranos and how to prolong their glory days were hardly uncommon among serious musical scholars. Sometimes he rued not having taken the respectable path into academia proper - but then he remembered that he didn't care about respectability any more, and that if one _did_ have to get something so pedestrian as a job, Master of both Potions and Choir at Hogwarts was hardly to be sniffed at in any case. Besides, the pay was better.

The last pure quavering notes faded away, and Draco held the silence for a moment, letting the last echoes pass. Then he lowered his baton and with a single imperious gesture dismissed the choir from rehearsal. He always told them what they had to work on at the start of rehearsal, not the end when, if he'd done his job right, they shouldn't even be able to hold a coherent conversation - Draco believed in singing as exercise, and attributed to it his trim figure.

“Professor Malfoy, sir,” said Albus, lingering next to the conductor’s stand as his compatriots filed out with a slight stumble, “how much longer do you think my voice will last?” He spoke only quietly, eyelids drooping slightly. The veins showed through the thin, pale skin, producing a lilac tint.

Draco pursed his lips.

“Hard to say - but not so long. A couple of months, maybe three, before you really can’t make the top C any more.” He paused. “Of course, if you keep singing through it, there’s a fair chance we’ll make a countertenor out of you.”

Tired though he was, Albus’ face brightened with hope. Over the past year his face had begun to lose its babyish roundness: his red lips and pink cheeks looked a little less cherubic.

“I’ll do my best, sir!” he said, before turning to catch up to a friend who had kindly waited at the door - or possibly just stopped there to catch his breath.

Draco wasn't lying: he never lied to his students, even when it would have been kinder. But with Albus he tried to be gentle with the truth because the fact was, he just didn't know. Albus could make a countertenor, even a good countertenor - but there had been plenty of exquisite trebles who aged into indifferent baritones, and no-one could tell which outcome was more likely until it actually happened.

If only there were something like Felix Felicis for this: a way to ensure a favourable outcome in a situation outside the realm of human agency. Draco tidied away the chairs with a flick of his wand, then the stand, and locked the door to the practice room behind him. There was no point worrying, but he'd always been the worrying sort. A dram of Firewhiskey before bed, perhaps. 

Everything continued as normal: Draco taught Defence Against the Dark Arts and conducted the choir in preparation for the Yule Ball, Albus attended his classes and sang beautifully in said choir. His lower notes were coming in force, his higher ones more vulnerable, but he could still make that top C. Not that the C would be required for the Ball - Draco had noticed the onset of the change months ago and chosen pieces that only reached B flat and would not strain his voice. They had both prepared as much as possible for the inevitable change - but Draco worried, and although Albus was as sweet natured as ever, he thought the uncertainty was getting to him too. 

The youngest Potter had always paid Draco a lot of attention, ever since he'd become a member of the Frog Chorus in his first term. It went beyond the bounds of chorus master and student: Draco had considered the possibility that Potter the elder had put him up to it, but it became obvious in fairly short order that it was just a standard case of hero worship, like the kind he'd had for Snape back in the day. He couldn't think why Albus had chosen himself to latch onto, given the tumultuous history between their families and the fact that Albus didn't strike Draco as a particularly rebellious type - he was a Hufflepuff, for crying out loud - but he certainly had and Draco had done nothing to discourage it. It was a strange choice, but Albus could have done much worse - though he suspected that his family and intimates might disagree.

And if it were beyond the bounds of hero-worship and into the territory of infatuation...well, that too was common enough. Early in his second year Draco himself had developed a certain admiration for Felix Bulstrode, three years ahead of him at school and sharing his sister’s strong features, which on him looked noble and patrician. Truth be told, Draco found it quite flattering: he could admit that he was a vain man, and to have Potter’s youngest turn a touch pink when Draco smiled at him too long was a very gratifying sop to his much-abused dignity. And Albus _was_ a pretty boy.

But soon, Albus would likely leave that behind, as all schoolboys leave behind their boyish infatuations to direct all their attentions to girls. Although at fourteen Albus was comparatively late, which made Draco wonder if he might even never be interested in women. It wasn’t unheard of: Hieronymous Nott, younger brother to Theodore, had contracted a marriage with a South American heiress a few years ago, but it was no secret that it was a _mariage blanc_. Of course, it was also no secret that the heiress for her part had brought her spinster ‘bosom companion’ with her and that they were all living together in apparent domestic harmony while Theo carried on the family name, so Draco gathered the arrangement was working out very well for everyone involved.

But Albus - oh, Albus. Draco had stopped thinking of him as ‘Potter’ within the first few weeks of term, and had in short order been - well, _seduced_ by Albus’ unrelentingly sweet nature. He was the jewel in Draco’s musical crown, and to have cruel nature steal his gift now would bereave both himself and Draco.

The prospect put Draco in such a black mood that over two days he took a total of sixty housepoints for assorted minor infractions from anyone who crossed his path and gave one of the visiting Beauxbatons students a largely undeserved dressing-down in French, until Minerva - whom Draco expected would still be at Hogwarts well after he himself had gone - took him aside and suggested that perhaps he didn’t wish to emulate Severus’ _worse_ habits, like childish sulking when things didn’t go his way. Under McGonnagall’s beady eyes (he tried very hard to think of her as Minerva, but her scolding took him back to his own schoolboy years), he had to concede that it was very unattractive and not really in the new Slytherin spirit of which he should be making himself an example. He went away no less discontent, but at least his students went back to watching their potions anxiously for explosions instead of him.

Three months ago, Albus had come to his weekly private tuition in tears.

Draco leapt up from his piano stool in surprise. It wasn't that he'd never had to deal with a crying student before - becoming head of house had acclimatised him very quickly, although one never quite became entirely sanguine about being accosted by a damp-faced student - but this was Albus, the most cheerful student he knew who wasn't also a complete imbecile. Albus rarely frowned, never mind cried. 

“Albus,” he said, awkwardly holding out his hands. He’d meant it only as a placating gesture, but Albus crossed the room and took them in his. They were shockingly hot; Draco willed himself not to flinch.

“Sir,” said Albus, sniffling. His face was mottled pink, which made his eyes look very green. Draco squeezed his hands in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Albus’ hands felt small in his, and in his chest surged a wave of protectiveness. He must be getting sentimental in his middle age (never mind that he was only forty).

After a moment, Draco disengaged one hand to take out his handkerchief from his pocket and offer it to Albus, who took it with a watery expression of thanks. Draco waited politely for Albus to compose himself; when he himself had been a teenager he would never have allowed anyone to see him cry, so he had never quite mastered the art of talking to students who openly wept.

At length, Albus made himself presentable. He held the handkerchief between thumb and forefinger, clearly unsure whether Draco would want it back in its present state; Draco gestured to him to keep it. Albus was the conscientious sort: it would be laundered and returned in due course.

Albus was not a pretty crier - Draco had only ever met one person who cried attractively, and she had been part Veela - but there was something arresting about how vibrantly green his eyes appeared when surrounded by pink skin, solid on the lids and undereyes then turning splotchy like a wild cat’s markings on his cheekbones, and his puffy red lips. Minus the pink nose, it was rather artistic.

Albus didn’t volunteer what had made him cry, and Draco never asked. Perhaps this was why from then on he found Albus so intriguing; why when he glanced over the Great Hall at dinnertime seeking troublemakers, his gaze always rested for a moment on Albus’ well-behaved figure. That such a gentle, cheerful, self-contained boy could be provoked to such an emotional outburst seemed to Draco to indicate some hidden depth, some hitherto-undisclosed workings of the mind. Put simply, it made Albus seem very real to Draco, in a way that people are usually not to others.

From then on, he took a personal interest in Albus.

And now he was taking him for lessons three times a week, exercising his voice and hoping. If there was any justice in the world, any justice at all, Albus would blossom into at _least_ a good baritone.

It was a pity that Draco had no illusions about the fairness of the world. But fortune had always favoured the Potters, and just this once he hoped their luck would hold.

The Yule Ball arrived with both alarming rapidity and agonising slowness. The choir were in fine fettle, their enthusiasm raised and their instinct for avoiding embarrassment piqued by the prospect of performing in front of their peers, and through it all Albus’ swansong maintained even when his speaking voice began to wobble. Draco watched it all come together with more joy than impatience, and just a touch of fear that the teenagers might do something strange and incomprehensible to anyone but other teenagers and fuck it all up. He couldn’t think what such a thing might be, but the semi-irrational fear was there nonetheless. Not just one school to potentially embarrass himself in front of, but three! He slept little in the week before the performance.

Longbottom’s Yule Ball speech turned out quite decent, as speeches made for schoolchildren went - he hadn’t yet mastered the patronising Dumbledore twinkle - although Draco only heard it muffled through the doors of the Great Hall, where he had one ear listening for their cue and the other for any of the choir making noise. Soon, there was applause, and the small green flame in the door-niche turned purple. Draco carefully unclenched his hands from where they were crumpling his robes and waved open the doors.

The room fell hush as the quietly singing choristers processed in Draco at the back doing his best to imitate Snape’s robe-sweeping entrances he had so admired in his own schooldays. He had the height now, at least. The choristers arranged themselves in rows on the stands conjured for this purpose, holding their tune admirably despite all the moving around. Draco took his place at the conductor’s stand in time to conduct their last verse.

A beat of silence; then, the second piece, a bright bouncy one welcoming Yule. It seemed to pass very quickly to the third piece, which Draco had long thought was the most beautiful in the set. This was the real test.

The opening progressed normally, measured and sweet. Then the brief pause, during which Draco took a breath; and at last the crescendo that never failed to make anticipation build in Draco’s stomach; then the glorious harmony, a glittering chord of notes suspended in the still air, and above them all Draco fancied he could hear Albus’ clear soprano, sweet and pure as a bird.

Back to the gentle, measured style. Draco found his cheeks were wet, and was glad his back was to the audience.

The rest of the concert seemed to pass slowly in the moment, and Draco was startled to realise, after what felt like mere minutes, that they had only the rest of the current piece before they had to process out again, chanting softly once more. This time the front row led rather than the back, but Draco again brought up the rear, hoping he looked steadier than he felt.

As the doors of the Great Hall closed behind them, a wave of applause carried clearly through the stout oak. The choir were grinning from ear to ear; Draco thought he might be too, and for once found that he didn’t care.

The crowd of students parted, and he caught sight of Albus, his head thrown back and his mouth wide with joy. His chin tipped forward again, and their gazes caught for a moment. Animated, unguarded, Albus looked vitally alive.

Then someone stepped in the way and the moment was broken, but Draco wondered whether in his excitement he had looked the same to Albus.

After this, Hogwarts broke up for the holidays, everyone going home chattering about the odds for the Tournament. Draco, having had quite enough of tournament excitement in his own fourth year, was glad of the rest. He retired not to the Manor, where his parents were still living, but to Kingston Bagpuize where they kept a small holiday property, now set aside for Draco’s use. Its greatest charm was that it lacked such features as portraits of his inevitably-disapproving ancestors. He intended to visit his parents for a few days over Christmas and the New Year and spend the rest of the time engaged in his opus: a setting of the great poet Wulfric of Wessex’s words for treble and piano. He had not composed in some years, and thought it best to start simply.

It didn’t take him long to realise that whenever he sat in his armchair, wrapped up in his dressing-gown with a book of manuscript paper and a quill, the treble voice he heard singing the melody in his head belonged to Albus. Or rather, _had_ belonged to Albus: when they next met, Albus would have a man’s tone. It could never be sung as it sounded in his head, for the voice was the voice of a ghost.

Unsurprisingly, Draco made little progress on his composition.

When the students all came flooding back on the first Sunday of January, still apparently just as excited about the tournament as they had been at the end of last term, Draco could hardly believe that anything had changed. He had expected Albus to look different, more obviously ‘grown-up’, but he didn’t: the glimpse he caught of him at dinner before being intercepted by Granger (whom he must learn to call ‘Hermione’ now that she was professor of Arithmancy - she seemed to have no difficulty in calling him ‘Draco’) revealed no dramatic change in either face or stature. He didn’t look in Draco’s direction: Draco both desperately longed for him to look his way, and irrationally feared what might happen if their gazes met.

He returned to his chambers after dinner feeling hot and prickly down the back of his neck. _You old fool,_ he thought, _you’ve gone and done it now._ Pupils fancying their professors was one thing; professors fancying their students was something else. For once, Draco longed for the Pureblood customs he had been brought up with, which would not only permit such a relationship but encourage it. He could take Albus under his wing and into his arms at the same time, and it would be perfectly proper...but he already knew that this was not the way things were done at Hogwarts.

Disconsolate, he threw himself back in his armchair, almost spilling his glass of brandy. He felt like listening to _The Rite of Spring_ , which might reflect his inner turmoil, but perhaps a piece whose first performance had caused a riot was not the best choice. He put on some Mozart instead. Say what one might about Muggles, they had produced some fine composers.

Twenty measures in, he hissed in irritation at the well-balanced, harmonious Piano Sonata No. 8 and with a flick of his wand switched to the Stravinsky he’d first wanted. He finally relaxed as he heard the familiar opening chords: much better. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed. It would pass, of course: un-nurtured, with no hope of reciprocation, these feelings would fade just as they had before.

And indeed perhaps they would have, had they not been encouraged in the most unexpected way.

The first choir rehearsal of term was scheduled for Tuesday night; accordingly, Draco had arranged an informal social gathering for the choir the evening before. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d have thought of by himself, but Longbottom had strongly suggested it and although Draco personally thought that he spent quite enough time with teenagers, at least he could use it as an emotional barometer to check whether he could expect to be losing anyone to other commitments in the near future.

So they made use of the empty Charms classroom: goblets of pumpkin juice were laid out on a table and at half-past eight choristers drifted in, talking amongst themselves and eyeing Draco with some trepidation. Draco had never cared to be known as one of the more ‘approachable’ members of staff, which usually suited him just fine, but it now meant that he felt a little awkward over his students’ obvious reluctance to strike up a conversation with him. He kept his back resolutely straight and sipped at his (somewhat fortified) juice with what he hoped was a disinterested expression.

“Professor.”

He knew that voice. He turned around, too fast, and felt his heart turn over in his chest when he saw Albus’ open, honest face gazing at him intently. His hair was even more of a mess than usual.

“Professor please, I need to speak to you. I need to show you something.” He caught the sleeve of Draco’s robes to encourage him, and Draco followed him, goblet still in hand, ignoring the stares of his other choristers.

“Back shortly, talk among yourselves!” he said, as if they hadn’t been doing that already.

Albus led him out of the room, down the corridor, out into the quad and up a staircase, at which point Draco realised that they were heading for their practice room - which was in fact the Room of Requirement, and therefore up several more flights of stairs. He resigned himself to getting rather more exercise this evening than he had intended.

At last, they came to the seventh floor. Albus looked around in confusion for the door; Draco, resigned, held up a hand, then walked back and forth in front of the relevant section of wall three times, concentrating on the need for a piano and music.

“Oh!” exclaimed Albus as the door appeared. Draco opened the door to their usual cozy practice room, and waved him in.

“Now,” he said, seating himself, “what did you want to show me?”

Albus took a moment to reply, still marvelling at the room - those who knew about it had never revealed its part in the Resistance, nor even its existence. The castle had to keep some secrets.

“This, professor,” he said, straightening and assuming a singing stance. “Can I please have ‘I attempt from love’s sickness to fly’?”

“Indeed you may,” said Draco, the music already to hand. “I’ll give you three bars of introduction.” And he launched into Puccini’s mannered accompaniment.

The voice that joined in was young and sweet, with the timbre of a woodwind instrument. It needed some heavy breathing work, but the tone was sensitive and above all it was very pleasant to listen to. Draco’s fingers were sure on the keys even as he inwardly rejoiced. A fine tenor! By Merlin, they’d done it! When they’d done, he turned in his seat to beam at Albus.

“Ah,” said Albus when he opened his mouth to congratulate him, also smiling, “but there’s more. Could you get out ‘Ombra mai fu’?”

Draco paused, breath suspended for a moment. Then he said,

“Of course,”

\- and plucked it from the pile of soprano arias.

The introduction seemed to last an age. He could hear Albus breathing deeply beside him. His fingers felt clumsy.

“ _Ombra mai fu…_ ” - and Draco nearly stopped playing in shock. Only instinct kept him following the notes on the page, stately and sure.

The voice was not the same voice that had graced the Frog Chorus for the past two and a half years: it was an adult’s voice, with adult timbre and power. But it was still sweet and clear, its purity unsullied, and - blessing of blessings! - the one thing so rare in countertenors, a mezzo’s warmth of tone. Compared to this, Albus’ treble voice had been bland.

Oh, it wasn’t perfect: he hadn’t quite got the hang of switching registers, and they evidently needed to work on some serious breathing control. But Draco played the whole aria in paroxysms of delight.

They finished, Albus’ voice quavering a little as he held the last note, and Draco stood up so fast he all but overturned the piano stool. He didn’t know what expression he was making, but Albus was beaming at him giddily, and he held out his hands as he had at the beginning of the year but this time Albus didn’t simply grasp them but flung himself into Draco’s arms, pressing his face into Draco’s shoulder.

Draco put a hand on his back, feeling his narrow waist expand and contract with his breathing. He could feel Albus’ nose digging into his collarbone. He could hear a heartbeat, and couldn’t tell whose it was. He rested his chin atop Albus’ head, and closed his eyes.

They returned to the social to find everyone still there, apparently rather less inhibited in the absence of adult supervision. They made as if to make themselves respectable again when Draco reappeared, but Albus’ announcement of

“COUNTERTENOR!”

\- made them break out into giddy cheers. How had Draco never noticed how popular Albus was among the other choir members? His obvious talent could have made them jealous and resentful, but his warm, sunny nature that had so seduced Draco had clearly seduced everyone else too.

Albus turned to him, green eyes bright, red mouth open, a hectic flush in his cheeks, and drew him into the conversation so as to call upon his testimony that he really _had_ sung in two different ranges. Draco obliged, already in the back of his mind formulating a re-working of his opus-in-progress: _Five Songs for Countertenor and Piano_.

**Author's Note:**

> I've just discovered that clicking on the music links in the text does nothing, so let's see if AO3 likes them any better in the end notes:
> 
> [Peter Pears singing Puccini's 'I attempt from love's sickness to fly' accompanied by Benjamin Britten](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=piNH18JhDU4) (Followed by 'Man is for the woman made' - some irony there, one feels)
> 
> [Andreas Scholl singing Handel's 'Ombra mai fu'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7XH-58eB8c)


End file.
